


a ghost of a boy

by dramaticgasp



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, USC Trojans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 17:51:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramaticgasp/pseuds/dramaticgasp
Summary: ''It's nota phase,'' you hiss.The fucking implication.A month of watching red and gold on the court, and you hearindoctrinated values; like it's an event-caused disturbance; like a stage of grief. The fucking words.





	a ghost of a boy

''It's not _a phase_ ,'' you hiss.  
  
The fucking implication.  
  
A month of watching red and gold on the court, and you hear _indoctrinated values_ ; like it's an event-caused disturbance; like a stage of grief. The fucking words.  
  
Jeremy shifts his weight and exhales. The gold-toned morning light coming from a changing room window ignites his hair like a fucking halo; he seems to think it turns the words he polishes in his head saintly when he speaks.  
  
''Jean,'' he probes you with a look and you're afraid, you hope he can see the words melted on your tongue. It's all a fucking joke; you don't belong to a place of intricate handshakes every time a wall lights up red or prolonged breaks during practice to do handstands. But the joke's on you; you signed the contract.  
  
He says, ''It's a team sport. It's important to adjust our training so everyone can work on their weaknesses.'' His feet are planted shoulder length apart, and the room is attuned to him; his purposeful gaze, his steady posure, all a part of the architectural plan. He fits _everywhere_. ''Different styles can become an advantage if you learn to use them.''  
  
You unhook a hand towel from your neck and throw it at his chest. ''You fool,'' you tell him. ''They are a drag-down.''  
  
Blind, so blind; blinded by the sun of the ever-sunny land. His yellow untruths. He is a collection of photographs of remarkable days taped to a wall in his bedroom. He is coffee-stained sheets of paper, torn out of his notebooks, and then piled up into a heap on his desk.  
  
He drags a finger over his closed eyes. ''I don't know what else to say. It has been proved, it's being proved all the time. You know the upshot?'' he asks. ''It's altered emission of serotonin and tryptophan. Resulting in lowered motivation. Insomnia.'' His eyebrows rise. ''Irritability.''  
  
_The tone_. He could have just as well been waving around with a diploma.  
  
Other universities would have recruited you. _Jean Moreau_. The Perfect Court. The court doors would open and a thunder would reach every corner of a stadium, feet thumping in a rhythm of a heartbeat. An exy stick a sword, you were a knight who pulled the sword, bloody, out of your punctured lungs and sprang into a battle.  
  
''What I'm trying to say is, quantity is really not the most important factor.'' His eyes, light eyes, lock with yours when he says, ''It's not effective.''  
  
You start undoing your shoes.  
  
He steps into your vision, ''Look. It's been working for us. Consider just this.''  
  
You ask, ''Has it?''  
  
He shrugs, ''You know the ranking.''  
  
''You lost to us,'' you snipe.  
  
The Trojans; back in an august afternoon, legs crossed and bodies set in a circle like in a goddamn ritual, leaning back with hands on the sticky stadium parquet, each mouth revealed its hopes and fears and goals for the upcoming year, each mouth saying _winning winning winning_. Newcomers with a childish spark, others with determination.  
  
And a laugh clotted in your throat. Their ignorance; they dreamed of winning while canceling practice for a birthday celebration, dreamed of winning when they told a new dealer _no one is perfect when they start off_ when his throws were aimed below waist.  
  
And now Jeremy's light eyes are tinted with put out expectation and gentle sadness as they search for _the right thing_ \- and you can't look at him.  
  
''You should come to Alvarez's,'' he says, ''later. She's having a - private celebration of the new season. For high spirits.'' His lips form a sideways smile and he draws a line upwards with a finger, ''above forty percent.''  
  
You cross your arms. ''Nobody invited me,'' you tell him. It's not like you'd come anyway.  
  
''You're invited,'' he says and claps his hands. Dust motes dance above his head. He breathes air and it becomes alive.  
  
You can see him tasting the words with his tongue before he says, ''And you should start passing to Nick and Quaranta. You're on the same team.'' He tries to smile with soft eyes, but his mouth twitches when he says, ''There's only nine of us.''  
  
And you hate the threat, the _tender, well-meaning_ threat. You hate it.  
  
You want to decline, but you hear it in his tone, _it's not a suggestion_ , and what can you do? You can hear he doesn't say: _I don't know how else to try_. He doesn't say: _I want you on the team_. He doesn't say: _give us time to figure it out_.  
  
''Fine,'' you snap.  
  


*

The duffle bag makes a clunking sound when you toss it on a bench nearest to your locker. The water drizzling from your arms has wet its handles and started leaking inside.

The band of your watch is sticking to your skin when you strap it around your wrist, digits shining in red. 20.23.

That's the Trojans' arrangement; every week, two players are responsible for putting away balls and cones, if used, and shutting down the lights. After the last training of the day, you were left alone on the court with Alvarez's deliberate silence, her dark eyes glinting and mouth suppressing knowing smiles. You could see her tongue twisting with things unsaid. She let the quiet soak the air. It made your skin itchy.

The light from the shower room is catching on the middle row of lockers and is softened by the billowing steam, hiding your bench in darkness. The door ajar is letting some of the blue light of the hallway in. The changing room was not built for nine players; it now somewhat gives a sense of privacy even when full.

You sit and your breath hitches when your back collides with the cold of the wall behind you. Slouched, you pull one leg up.

Alvarez was hurrying, quick-fingered and flowy across the parquet, and you were dragging, slowly picking up the cones, assembling them into a pyramid. She left in a minute, her ponytail rocking from side to side and you felt the urge to straighten your shoulders. A feeling of familiarity nudged your ribs; around you, Jeremy always looks as though he has a secret on the tip of his tongue, buzzing with unspent something. You don't know how to give them what they want.

You could ditch tonight, go to bed and reread your course schedule over and over, or start with the reading you were assigned in Sociology. You've got nothing to tell Alvarez, or anyone.

You've come a long way on your own, anyway.

Then, everything becomes brighter, and then the hallway door closes with a thump, leaving the room dark.

You blink to adjust your vision, but the opposite of the showers is coal black.

''Jean?'' Jeremy's voice calls, too loud when it echoes against the tiles. He stays still for five heartbeats and you hold your breath and start extinguishing until there's only darkness where your body used to be.

Water drizzles down your forehead and into your eyes. You try to blink it away.

The ghosts of hurried steps are amplified by the emptiness of the room and you feel like a stalagmite, only a visitor breaking the cave's constant silence. The room dims as Jeremy's silhouette appears at the door frame. He fades inside.

You feel goosebumps spreading down your arms. The air feels colder now. The water at your feet has evened with the cold of the tiles.

A silence. Splattering of water from the showers, scurried steps.

A silence.

Jeremy's breathy half-laugh.

And then he strides back out.

The bang of the hallway door shutting deepens the quiet you're left in. You count seconds until you're convinced the hallway is empty. You stand up, but you can't dry off the uncomfortable twist of your insides.

*

You walk to a couch where Alvarez's sitting and typing on her phone. You grab a pillow before you sit, putting it between you two.

Your cheeks are warming up and body tingling.

She looks up and swaps the phone for a glass from a coffee table.

''Baguette,'' she bumps her glass into your shoulder, ''Jeremy tells me to talk to you and shit and be all hugs and kisses. And I tell him – I tell him, 'boy, the day he comes to me himself and isn't - fucking rude, I'll be – I'll be xoxo.'' She raises her glass, ''And here you are.''

You sniff and run your fingers through your hair. ''Yes.''

Jeremy is so – naive. He wants to solve everyone's problems by making others hold a thread, tying their hands; a net of threads, meeting in the middle, meeting at _Jean Moreau, USC's new acquisition_ ; and you feel them pulling your skin apart. Your lungs expand, and you've got too much air to breathe.

Somebody's half lying on a divan next to the couch and squinting to watch a TV. Every space of the room not taken up by a vibrant body is brought to life by the blood-pumping beat.

Alvarez raises her eyebrows, takes a sip, and lays the glass on the table to lean forward on her elbows, hugging her cheek with a long-fingered hand. She blinks slowly and catches your eyes, her fingers tapping rhythmically. Her eyes twinkle with the knowing smile.

You know what people think when you stride across campus pavements, head high and purposeful steps; when you speed up crossing the park where bodies lie under the shadows of maple trees, stretched on a mattress of green, arms bent behind their heads.

A chair lands on your left, a body throwing itself down. Jeremy says, ''I'm beat.''

Alvarez asks, ''Where's Laila? She's bringing lemons. How long?'' and you look at your watch like it has an answer.

And then you hear your voice, toneless and smooth, and on the screen you see your high-lifted head and focused eyes.

_''–was sealed when Alvarez didn't pass to Sanders when he was in the open. He could have struck, he had a clear pathway. Sanders is Trojans' best striker, after all – they could have stood a chance.''_

Black really does suit you best, makes your back look straighter and arms leaner and contrasts the white of your neck.

Alvarez looks behind her shoulder, ''Nick. Why do you smell like cigarettes?''

He approaches to sit on the headrest of the divan. ''Because of cigarettes,'' he says.

_A nameless voice and a nameless face, holding a microphone close to your face._

_''–philosophy on discipline. How do you ensure perpetual wins? Judging by the game we've just witnessed, by cultivating the players' assiduity, is that so? What factors influence your team, other than athletic ability?''_

_''I would rather call it uniformity. Or consistency, in this case. We aim towards being a dependable, quickly adaptable team – of course, with repeating play moves, it cannot be expected–''_

''Wow, they need to chill,'' says the person from the divan. ''It's fucking mental.''

''Not to a Raven,'' Nick says, and Jeremy looks away.

_''–technique is paramount, especially in the second half of a season. Focusing on strength and conditioning is–''_

Alvarez tells him, ''Get lost.''

You pick up the glass from the table.

''Ah,'' she breathes, ''I see.'' You roll your eyes.

_''–more than just a pre-seasonal week, actually. We take a month to upskill new recruits. We think it is for the best. The conditions of pre-college don't really–''_

She pulls the glass out of your hands and raises it, ''Here's to a kick-ass year,'' and Jeremy says, ''Damn straight.''

Whooping from a faraway part of the room soaks the air. Your blood is too hot.

Then, turning to you, she says, ''Relax, Jean boy.'' Lights are dancy behind her and the beat's becoming faster.

Nick says, ''He can't trust us.'' He grins at you. ''Isn't that so, Moreau?''

And Jeremy asks, ''Can't he?'' He's not looking at you. ''Trust us?''

''I don't need to,'' you tell him. The knots in your brain must be loosening. ''It's not the point,'' you say.

He crosses his arms and sucks every air molecule from the room into his lungs. He's a storm. You bring your hands up to your eyes to shield them from the wind.

_''–too much passing around. It was a mistake, they missed all opportunities to score. Either–''_

''Tell me,'' he asks, voice contained, ''what does that mean?'' His stare chains yours so you can't look away. ''What is? To win against the Ravens?'' He's growing on spot like a fucking mushroom. He inclines his head, ''To get a well-paid job?''

You really can't take it right now.

''You know what I mean,'' you snap. But you don't want to think. You don't know what you mean.

_''–should perhaps give more attention to the situation on the scoreboard. A penalty or not, the judges came to a consensus. Perhaps the outcome should be of greater importance than reputation.''_

''Jean,'' he says, so quietly it makes you want to leave immediately, but he still has you chained with his lake eyes. ''That's not what it's about.''

_You know._

You know that when you pour yogurt over cereal under the orange patterns your lampshade's throwing on the bedside cabinet. When the quiet of your room contrasts the muffled noise of traffic and thumping of running feet and shuffling of half-put-on sneakers and giggling in the hallways. The traffic of always-busy streets of Southern California steals your sleep, but something binds your heartbeat to its rhythm.

You know that when you're arranging a cardboard box of classics on an empty shelf, The Great Gatsby and Crime and Punishment and Dracula, and a secondhand radio that you bought on world-music-day-themed stands on campus is singing _je ne regrette rien_ , and rain has painted a curtain and dimmed the city lights.

You know that when you don't take your phone when you go grocery shopping because account statements can wait, and because you couldn't think of what to reply to Jeremy's _bring today's sun to training, folks! :)_ either way.

_''–pursue in every way possible. So, no, I would not say so. Knox's aim is precise, but he hesitated in the last seconds of the first half-time – that is how Jenkins got the lead of the–''_

The couch dips when you push yourself up, and then you're walking down the hallway.

*

Unlocking the court entrance, a key set jingles in your hand, fingers clumsy, and Jeremy breathing at your heels. An exy ball feels grounding in your other hand.

You stop at the away goal and lift the ball to the spot between your eyes, and everything else blurs.

You wonder how something can be two things at once. Death and life, each on the opposite side of a canvas. You'd have to penetrate the canvas for life to seep to the other side, and your canvas was unyielding; although splattered red. The twitching of your eyelids when you forced them open when you wanted to see nothing but black and hear nothing and be nothing, unblinking to let them dry, the stinging – indicated you were alive. What a laugh. You weren't living.

You swing back to throw the ball and your elbow hits Jeremy's chest. You turn and try to place a hand on the spot you hit but only manage to push him backward.

He says, ''Sorry,'' not sounding sorry at all.

That's where you're different; he speaks with words and you speak with actions. You want to tell him how at night, the sound of exy balls rebounding off plexiglass plays behind your closed eyelids, and how it puts your body on the edge of springing into motion. What should you show him to unveil these pieces of you? Where could you take him? Maybe not everybody is meant to be known.

The ball has bounced off the wall and rolled into a corner of the court.

''Stop closing off,'' Jeremy says.

Stadium lights are blinding when you throw your head back and fireflies lively in your vision. You cover your eyes.

When you were a Raven, hollowed out looks of pity after a sleepless night spent on tripping cones meant nothing. When the sound of a heavy door being pushed disrupted your throw so a ball missed all cones and rolled beyond, it never mattered who averted their eyes or who flinched when the ball hit a wall or who thought _at least it's not me_. It didn't matter.

He says, ''Not for us. For you.'' His flyaway hair is casting shadows across his skin and he presses it down against his forehead. ''Alvarez thinks so, too.''

''Oh,'' you fully face him. ''Then sorry. You're all right. I'm wrong.''

A silence is laid like fog.

Voice low, he says, slowly, ''I didn't say that.''

Lights are buzzing and wavering and so bright you need to squint, and Jeremy's lips are a thin line, with a secret in his mouth and expectation in his eyes. You take a step back before he'd do something stupid.

''Yes,'' you tell him, ''that's what you said.''

''I didn't say you were wrong.'' His voice is raised and brows furrowed and it's an unfitting piece of a puzzle and your veins shrink. Guilt feels empty. It's an unlidded box with nothing inside. It's leaking from all gaps of your body like a broken tap. Tension is seeping through Jeremy's stance. It might really have broken. The thing about broken taps is they can go unnoticed, a drop after a drop, but in the end, they leave your pockets empty.

The night you turned fifteen, sweet fifteen, after midnight, Kevin threw the doors of your room open and dragged you to the court. Your rabbit heart was in your throat when you tiptoed in dark hallways, but you went; you went, because an ocean of rage and exasperation was crashing your insides, and because Kevin was too drunk to care.

And it didn't go unnoticed. Of course; it never would. And then it would be over and you'd feel aflame, your heartbeat a pressure in your temples. And then the adrenaline would die down and you'd wonder if you'd see your reflection at all when you'd pass by a mirror. You were a ghost of a boy.

Bile rises in your throat.

And Jeremy's holding your shoulders, saying, ''Jean, Jean.'' And he leans to say in your ear, straight to your heart, from where it spreads to the tips of your toes, ''Let me help.''

And you let him.

*

The doors of a grocery store open automatically when you enter, a basket in your hands and a phone a weight in a pocket of your jacket. You feel a vibration close to your heart, so close it feels like revival.

Jeremy texted you - a reminder to buy grated cheese and olives and salt; it's not like you've forgotten.

He's strangely drawn to pointless messaging. He texts you _there in a minute_ every time.

You put the basket down to reply. The longer you watch a smiley face in your text box, the stranger it seems. An echo rings behind your eyes.

 _You know I read it_ , you said, waving a phone in Jeremey's face. _You sent it._

And he said, _no, no._ He said, _I'll know when you reply. Give in, Moreau. You need to reply._

And what was the point? Why would you send anything when you have nothing to send? What would you say when you have nothing to tell?

 _A thumb-up_ , he said. _A smiley face. That's nice_.

You press send and pick up the basket.

  


**Author's Note:**

> please please give some feedback


End file.
